


Dollars & Cents

by ekbe_vile



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, BDSM, Bondage, Bottom Castiel, Dark, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Gags, M/M, Rough Sex, Sounding, Top Dean, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 22:02:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3912235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ekbe_vile/pseuds/ekbe_vile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sex isn't the same, after Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dollars & Cents

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted on LiveJournal on August 4th, 2011. It contains spoilers for Season 5, specifically 5.03 and 5.08 - are they still spoilers if it's been almost four years? Anyhow, this story is dark, Dean is not particularly nice, and there's a lot of self-loathing and unhealthy BDSM practices. Just so you're aware.

Sex isn't the same, after Hell.

It takes a couple goes with random girls picked up in bars for him to realize it, long nails carding sweetly through his hair instead of slicing skin, kisses and caresses where he craves bites and blows. He's not upset when the waitress with the double D's and pink and black hair calls him a freak and flees his bed, is more relieved than ashamed. 

He lays back and loops his own belt around his throat, pulls it tight and jerks off with thoughts of straps and clamps and sparks of oxygen deprivation behind his eyes.

He quits trying to pick up girls in bars. No woman in her right mind would let a one-night-stand do the things that Dean wants to do. 

Later there's Anna, in the back of the Impala, but she doesn't count – sex with her isn't about what Dean wants. He puts everything dark and ugly from his mind and focuses on her pleasure, because this is the only shot she's ever going to get.

After she's gone, he gets pretty familiar with his hand.

*

Castiel is different. 

Dean doesn't know what he's expecting, the first time they fuck – thinks at first that it'll be like Anna again. Castiel is a virgin, and it's very likely Raphael will kill him tomorrow. There's no way Dean's letting his friend go out with his cherry intact, and when they fail so spectacularly at the whore house, well...

He wasn't expecting this, the way Castiel whines and arches into him, head tossed from side to side like he's trying to fight his way to the surface for air. Dean slaps him, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to get his attention, but Castiel's eyes go wide as saucers and his mouth falls slack and Dean can feel Castiel's cock twitch against his belly.

"Dean," the angel rasps, "please..."

And he's not exactly sure how he knows what Castiel wants, could just be that it's what he wants himself. But Cas is an angel. Dean doesn't have to hold back.

So he doesn't. He hits Castiel again, harder this time – open hand making a satisfying crack against Castiel's cheek, whipping his head to the side from the force. Dean's cock throbs where it's already buried tight and hot inside the angel and he can't help a groan, feels the beginnings of his orgasm curling and uncurling in the pit of his stomach.

"Again," Castiel gasps, and Dean complies.

*

Dean doesn't mind having sex with Sam sleeping in the next bed – it gives him an excuse to use the gag. He likes the way Castiel's lips look stretched around it, loves how saliva oozes from the corners of his mouth. And Castiel makes these delicious, fucked out noises behind it – muffled grunts and whines and whimpers when Dean twists his nipples or slaps his cock.

It's only a matter of time before Sam catches them. Dean grudgingly agrees it would be better if they booked separate rooms on the nights Castiel spends with them. And those nights grow more frequent the longer the angel is cut off from Heaven.

At a diner somewhere in eastern Ohio, Sam frowns at his coffee, stirs it for the umpteenth time, and takes a breath. Working up to something.

"This thing you have with Cas," he starts. "I get it...and I don't."

Dean feels Sam's eyes on him, soulful and searching, but he doesn't look up from his plate of eggs. He shovels some into his mouth, mumbles around his fork, "There's nothing to get."

"Dean," Sam presses, so much disappointment and concern in his voice Dean could puke. "He's not just some girl you picked up at a bar..."

"I know that." Oh, how he knows.

Sam sighs and pushes his chair back. "I'm just saying...you need to be careful." He spreads his hands, palms up, a gesture half-pleading, half-surrender. "He's your friend, first."

*

As much as Dean hates seeing Castiel beaten and bloody, a strip of duct tape stretched tight over his lips, on his knees at the Trickster's mercy...he hates that he wasn't the one who put the angel in that position even more. It's only later, when he and Sam are back on the road and the rogue archangel is fading in the rearview, that Dean is able to digest the strange rush of anger and desire that struck him in that moment.

That ugly, animal feeling – that was jealousy. The hairs rise on the back of Dean's neck and his jaw tightens at the thought of someone else's hands on Castiel, of Castiel turning those desperate, wanting blue eyes on anyone else.

Castiel rides in the back of the Impala, pressed against the door, gaze fixed out the window. Dean steals a glance at the angel in the rearview – his face is drawn, his lips tight, everything about him shrinking and guarded. The bruises and the blood are gone, but Dean can see the encounter with Gabriel is still working on Cas. 

At the motel that night, Dean fucks Castiel slow and deep – holds the angel's arms pinned above his head and sucks on his collar bone, his neck, his ear, until Castiel is a squirming, whining wreck beneath him. But somehow, it's not enough – where usually Castiel arches to get closer, the motion now feels like pushing away.

Dean grunts and pants in his ear. "Are we going to have to talk about this?"

Castiel bites down on his lip and shakes his head, eyes screwed shut. Normally that means he's close, orgasm unfurling in his belly like a sail, but Dean can tell this is different. Cas is fighting.

Dean grabs Castiel's legs behind the knees, pushes them up and down to the mattress, bending the angel in half, letting Dean thrust deeper. "Are you going to make me tie you up?" he half threatens. "Force it out of you?"

Castiel groans, Dean's name recognizable somewhere in the long string of guttural consonants. The new angle lets Dean stroke Cas's prostate on the in and the out, rolling the angel's eyes back, making him forget himself, making him sweat.

And Dean is close himself, whole body trembling with the effort of holding back. He hooks Castiel's knees over his shoulders, feels the angel's heels dig into his sides as he leans down, crushing Cas beneath him. He licks at Castiel's mouth, works a hand between their bodies to grasp and twist and pull. "Cas," he breathes, "I've got a roll of duct tape in my duffel."

Castiel blows a couple light bulbs when he comes, but Dean figures he can forgive him, this time.

*

Sam is on a hunt with Bobby in Wisconsin, tracking a shifter that left Dean with a cracked rib and a bruised ego. He stays behind in Sioux Falls, circles Bobby's house like a caged animal, clawing to get out. But it's winter, snowing hard, and the cold air stings his lungs when he steps out onto the porch.

He hates waiting, stewing in that terrible in-between time, anxious to call and check up on his brother but knowing he'd just be a distraction. He settles in Bobby's study, smoothes down the pages of the book left open on the desk – angels and devils, spells and sigils. _John Dee_ , Dean thinks, and wonders what it was about the old wizard that made the angels reveal themselves to him, to teach him their language and signs and how to bind them.

Perhaps they had known the fearful peasants would burn Dee's library – perhaps it wasn't so much about trust, as inevitability. Perhaps the wizard's knowledge was his punishment, to possess so much only to lose it all. 

Dean traces his finger along the soot-blackened edge of the page, wonders if this one volume survived by accident, or by something else – if, even then, the angels were planting the seeds for their Apocalypse.

The knowledge here was never meant for mankind, of that Dean feels certain. The dark, swirling marks – the angry lines slashed across the page – power bleeds through, makes the atmosphere crackle and raises the hairs on the back of his neck.

Binding sigils. Strong enough to render an angel powerless. To bring him to his knees, down in the soil of the earth, the waste of human pain and despair.

*

Dean spends the morning in the panic room, adjusting it to suit his needs. The cold of the concrete and iron reminds him of Hell, of flames that burned like dry ice, searing flesh from bones with a terrible precision. There's a space heater in the corner, but he doesn't plug it in – just tugs a woolen sweater over his flannel and breathes in his hands to warm them. The cold is a necessary part of the scene.

The rush of warm air that hits him as he climbs out of the cellar makes him sweat under his heavy layers. He peels himself down to his tee shirt – doesn't want the damp to sink into his skin – and grabs his phone from the living room coffee table. It's never _not_ strange, contacting Castiel like this, and when the other end of the line rings, and rings, and rings, Dean can't help the nerves that suddenly twist in his gut. Castiel spends too much time alone out there, hunting, hunted, worn down and desperate. Every time Dean calls for him he worries will be the time the angel doesn't answer.

But he does answer, and the relief that sweeps through Dean's chest, unclenching the vise around his heart, almost makes him reconsider his plan. "I'm at Bobby's," he says into the phone. "I want you here."

And just like that, there's a familiar shift in the air, a sound like wings cutting the atmosphere – Dean turns and Castiel is there, standing in the kitchen doorway. His coat is dirty, his shoulders slumped and fatigue in his voice. "Hello, Dean."

"Cas." He says it with a smile, sets his phone back on the table and crosses to take the angel's face in his hands, to pull him in for a kiss. Castiel's lips part easily beneath his own, a soft exhale tasting like clove smoke in Dean's mouth. "I missed you," he admits, words spoken into the hinge of Castiel's jaw. His hands slide under the angel's coat, pushing it off his shoulders, down his arms, but he doesn't think that's what sends a shiver through Castiel's limbs.

Dean tugs him back towards the couch, undressing the angel as he goes. Castiel doesn't make any attempt to resist, follows like a blind man desperate to maintain contact. They stumble back into the cushions, Dean grabbing Castiel's waist at the last moment and twisting so that the angel winds up pinned beneath him. 

For a moment it's almost tender, the way Dean cups his palm to the curve of Castiel's cheek, to the way he strokes his thumb beneath a too-blue eye. Castiel's breath is short, his eyes saucers in their sockets, beads of sweat already sticking dark hair to his brow. Dean touches him, and kisses him, all the while making soft, reassuring noises. 

"I want to show you something," Dean whispers. "Do you trust me?"

They're close enough to share breath, to feel each other's heat from shoulder to toe. Castiel arches a bit beneath him, pelvis lifting to grind against Dean's. "Yes," he answers, voice low like they're sharing a secret. "Of course."

Dean sits up and reaches over to snag the box that's been waiting patiently on the coffee table. It's small and unassuming, and Castiel sits up beside him to look at it. Dean's heart is suddenly racing, a slight tremble in his hand as he opens the box and passes it to Castiel. He watches Castiel's face as he peers inside – gauges the initial signs of confusion, and arousal, and then fear.

Castiel's gaze shoots back up to him. "Dean?"

He takes the box back, removes the padded leather collar from inside and sets the useless cardboard on the floor. And then he holds the collar up for Castiel to see – to really look at, although by the way the angel's lips part on a gasp and his eyes grow somehow even wider, it's clear he already understands the implications.

Dean remembers the first time he buckled the collar around Castiel's throat – remembers the way the angel had knelt before him, eyes glistening with unshed tears, and swallowed Dean's cock down past his gag reflex. And Dean had held the leash clipped to the collar, used it to pull the angel closer and then whipped his shoulders with the loose end.

But it's different now, altered with dangerous intent. The padding remains untouched, faux black rabbit hair a guard against chafing, but that softness is shadowed by the marks Dean has carved into the sturdy leather.

Binding sigils.

"Do you still trust me?" Dean asks, voice gone hoarse.

There's a moment when he expects Castiel will disappear – he has that deer-in-the-headlights look he'd gotten all those months ago in the brothel. But Castiel didn't run then, and he doesn't now – he takes a deep breath and then bows his head in submission, the fall of dark eyelashes against his cheekbones the only invitation Dean needs.

He leans forward and fastens the collar around Castiel's neck. Pulls the buckles tight. Shifts it so that the O ring dangles in the dip of the angel's clavicle. 

Castiel closes his eyes and draws his lower lip between his teeth, biting down as though he can feel it when the sigils take hold of his grace, tie it up and gag it.

Dean takes Castiel's hand in his own, holds it palm up – draws his pocket knife and deliberately pricks the tip of a long, elegant finger. Castiel hisses but remains still, watching alongside Dean as a drop of blood beads to the surface and stays there.

Dean sucks Castiel's finger into his mouth, tastes the iron of blood.

Cas is panting, eyes glassy, jaw slack.

Dean releases him, cups a hand to the angel's cheek. "Just checking," he smiles, fingers combing back through the mess of dark hair before pulling away. "Undress and meet me in the panic room." 

*

Castiel stands naked in the center of the panic room, shadow of the fan passing over him in slow, rhythmic gusts of air. Dean sits back and studies him – the length and paleness of his lean body, the dark line of the collar breaking up all that white skin. Castiel grabs at his own elbow, holds on in a terribly human gesture of fear and shame. Even in this light, Dean can see the goose bumps rising on his skin.

Dean nods toward the cot, outfitted with medical restraints, leather straps and cuffs. "Lie down."

Castiel dips his head in a nod, goes without protest – gingerly eases himself down onto the cot, flinching as bare skin touches cold metal. His hands grasp at the edges, knuckles whitening. Dean's own breath hitches a little at the sight of his angel's uncertainty...his _fear_.

"Ssh," he murmurs, moving to Castiel's side. He pets the angel's hair, and Castiel looks up to him, eyes wide and pleading, lips parted in blatant need. Dean leans down and kisses him deep, controlled, loving the way Castiel's eyelids flutter shut and his neck arches beneath the collar.

Castiel's hand brushes Dean's shoulder. The touch is shy, questioning – Dean puts a swift stop to it, grabs him by the wrist and pushes his hand back down to the cot.

And then he takes the first of the cuffs, buckles it tight around Castiel's wrist. The angel gasps, lips pulling away from Dean's as he tries to twist his head to look, but Dean has already moved to secure his other hand.

"Easy," Dean murmurs. He rubs circles on Castiel's chest, down over his tight belly, back up again to pinch and pull at a nipple. Castiel makes a startled noise and arches up, eyes bulging like he's feeling his body for the first time. The sound sends a thrill down Dean's spine, straight to his groin – makes his cock twitch against the confines of his jeans.

A third strap passes under Castiel's arms and across the plane of his chest – buckles in the middle like a belt, cinched tight over his sternum. Castiel squirms, breath shortening, while a fourth strap across his hips further restricts his range of motion. 

Dean steps back to admire the creature bound before him – the desperate heaving of his breath – the needy tilt of his pelvis. A flush spreads across Castiel's chest, rosy pink to match the swelling of his cock. Dean palms it experimentally, thumbing the slit. Castil groans and tips his head back on the cot, draws his knees up, exposing himself to Dean's touches.

It's perfect – _Cas_ is perfect, even so close to human like this. Dean reaches up to snag the horizontal bar he'd suspended from the ceiling, works the pulley system that lowers it to the level of Castiel's bent knees. He can feel the angel's eyes on him, straining to make out what he's doing. "Lift up," he commands, catching Castiel's ankle and using it to guide his leg over the bar. He repeats the process on the other side, and then secures both at the knee.

And now Castiel is _really_ trapped, the upper half of his body strapped down to the cot, the lower half suspended and vulnerable. Dean strokes one hand down the back of Castiel's thigh, gives the curve of his ass a firm slap, grasps and squeezes his balls.

Castiel's breath hitches, his body bucking involuntarily, rattling the chains that hold the horizontal bar. The sound of it, Castiel's gravel raw voice, the creak of leather against metal and flesh – Dean's cock throbs to hear his name on the angel's lips. He lurches forward, fists Castiel's hair – catches his lips, pulls the lower between his teeth, plunges his tongue deep and _tastes_.

"Cas," he murmurs, close enough to nuzzle the angel's cheek, to turn his own head and nip at the soft part of his ear. "I'm going to take you apart," he breathes into the coil of cartilage. "One piece at a time."

He can feel the shift of muscle as Castiel tries to move beneath him, hear the straining of his bonds and the almost panicked rhythm of his heart. He leans back to see Castiel's eyes closed, his chin tilted up, pulse rushing beneath the weight of the collar. And he's trembling – Castiel, angel of the Lord, is shaking under Dean's hand.

Dean can't stop touching Cas's hair, twisting it in his fingers, pulling it to force Castiel's eyes back to him. "You're probably going to want to scream," Dean tells him. "Feel free."

Dean moves away, back to the table where he's already laid out the things he'll need. Latex gloves. Lubricant. Soap and water. 

He starts with the sound – holds it up for Castiel to see before slicking it with lube. The angel's cock twitches, already hard and ready against his belly. Dean takes a firm hold of it, thumb pulling at the slit as he presses the instrument into place. "Hold still," Dean commands, works the sound inside with slow, even twists.

Castiel whimpers – actually _whimpers_ , small and helpless like a wounded animal. 

Dean's stomach flips, part adrenaline, part arousal – loves the way the angel's cock looks, red and quivering, thin wire dangling from the plug end of the sound. "This is an electro sound," he explains, rubs Castiel's hip as much to calm himself as the angel. "It delivers a small current, which I'll control."

A moan works its way up Castiel's throat, low and deep. He doesn't even try to crane his neck to look at Dean anymore – just lies back, eyes closed, lower lip bitten raw between his teeth.

Dean loves him like this.

He pulls a stool up to sit between Castiel's suspended legs – lubes his gloved fingers up and works them in, works the angel open with deliberate care. Now Castiel is really moaning, head tossing from side to side, and when Dean works in the plug – curved to press directly on his prostate – he actually cries out. 

Dean strokes Castiel's thigh, feels the muscles tense and relax, wobbly with the strain of the position. The other hand turns the dial on the plug's wireless controller, starts the vibrations off low, just enough to make Castiel gasp and jerk in his restraints. "Ssh, you're fine," Dean scolds him – keeps a hand on the angel's side as he moves around to stand by his head. 

Castiel is sweating, now, hair damp and plastered to his skull – his eyes widen, tracking Dean's movements. "Dean – " he starts, voice hoarse, unsteady. 

He doesn't get a chance to finish, eyes rolling back and mouth falling slack as Dean turns the dial on the second controller, the thin wire feeding into the sound. 

Cas makes a noise like he's drowning, water in his lungs, voice strangled out of his throat. His body arches under the straps, wrists tugging uselessly at the cuffs – Dean toes the stool closer and sits before his own legs give out at the sight.

He lowers the settings on the sound and the plug, watches with a tilted head as Castiel's eyes refocus, as he struggles to catch his breath. "Dean..." he pleads, still unable to fully articulate the thought.

"You're okay," Dean soothes him, cups his palm to Castiel's cheek and wipes away the first of what he hopes will be many tears. "Do you need the gag?"

Castiel shudders, nods weakly, eyes closed. "Please."

Dean's disappointed – he had looked forward to hearing his angel scream – but he won't deny Cas such a small thing. He selects a gag with a sturdy rubber base, the width of it covering and sealing Castiel's lips as beautifully as Gabriel's strip of duct tape. Another reassuring pat to the angel's cheek, and Dean returns to the stool.

And any thoughts he might have had of easing Castiel into this, of taking it slow, are gone – with the gag in place there's no real reason to hold back. He shifts the two controls in one hand – turns them up in alternating increments, watching as Castiel arches and writhes and groans behind his gag.

Dean leans forward to stroke Castiel's chest, feel the heat pouring off him, the slippery sheen of sweat. "You're so good, Cas," he says. "Look at what you let me do to you." And he turns up the dial again, eyes shifting from Castiel's face to the meter and back to his face again.

And now Castiel screams behind the gag, head lifting off the cot and dropping back down – legs draped over the horizontal bar kicking helplessly in the air.

Dean pinches and twists Cas's nipple, thumb dragging over the freckle beneath it before pulling back to unbuckle his own belt. He needs to get his cock out, needs to relieve some of the heat between his own legs because the sight of Cas like this is going to destroy him.

Because it's different, and yet so familiar – the cold of the room, the leather binds holding Castiel helpless on the table – the way he twists and writhes and rolls his eyes back in his skull as though he's _dying_.

"The things you let me do to you," Dean rasps. "Why do you let me do this to you?"

Castiel's eyes peel open, struggle to locate Dean in the room – his pupils dilate, shrink, dilate again. He shakes his head, denying the unspoken answer even as Dean cranks up the juice on both the sound and the plug, making Castiel's muscles tighten and strain.

Dean reaches up and unbuckles the gag, pulling the rubber out from between Castiel's teeth. "Answer me," Dean demands. 

"I can't," Castiel gasps, tossing his head to the side, "I can't..."

Dean's cock is out, heavy and leaking between his legs, jeans sliding down over his hips. He moves around the edge of the cot, places himself between Castiel's trembling thighs – drags the head of his cock over the crease of Castiel's ass, over the humming base of the plug.

"Dean, please – " 

He turns the dial up on the electro and Castiel screams, head thrown back, cheeks tracked with tears. His throat sounds raw and bloody, his chest and neck flushed scarlet – Dean has to drop the control to the vibrator and grab his leg to keep him from breaking the straps on the horizontal bar.

And then he doesn't care about the bar, anymore – rips at the straps behind Castiel's knees, tearing them free himself. He shoves them all out of the way, brings Castiel's legs down to wrap around his waist. "Why do you let me do this to you?" he growls, wanting it now – wanting to take his angel on the brink and jump into the depths with him. "Why don't you fucking _stop me?"_

But Castiel is lost to him, scream cut off into a staccato of short, hoarse cries – Dean's name, a desperate _can't...please..._

It's enough – Dean switches off both instruments, and Castiel's body collapses like the strings have been cut. Dean moves quickly, pulls out the sound first, and then the plug. 

Castiel lies breathless, eyes closed, his face wet with sweat and tears. "...sorry," he whispers into his own shoulder. 

Dean barely hears him – is too busy lining his cock up with Castiel's slippery, open hole – lost to the tightness and the heat as he finally sinks into his angel.

Castiel grunts, and then moans – fingers stretching and straining, desperate to touch, to make any sort of contact as Dean fucks him. 

Dean lurches up onto the cot, lies between Castiel's legs – leans forward enough to kiss the angel's collarbone, mumbling a mantra of, "Cas," and "Why?" into his skin.

It's over very quickly – Dean wound up, Castiel over-sensitized and unaccustomed to feeling without the buffer of his grace. Dean pulls out just before he climaxes, spreads his cum over Castiel's belly and uses it to jack him to completion.

*

Even with the collar off, Cas is weak and wobbly, leaning on Dean as they climb the stairs out of the cellar. In the bathroom he sits quietly in the tub, studying his hands as Dean rinses the sweat from his body; and in the bedroom, he leans back in Dean's arms, head tucked submissively into the curve of Dean's shoulder.

Dean strokes his hair, clean and damp from the shower – Castiel is suddenly this pale, fragile thing beside him, porcelain skin and shimmering glass eyes. "Cas?" he murmurs, voice soft in his angel's ear.

"Mmm?" 

"You have to tell me if it's too much."

But Castiel goes cold in his arms, suddenly stiff and resisting where only a moment before he was loose and relaxed.

"Promise me, Cas."

"Don't you want to know why?" he asks. "Why I let you do these...things to me."

For a moment Dean considers it, wonders why the creature who raised him from Hell would willingly follow him back into the flames. He remembers John Dee and the language of angels, power given and taken away – closes his eyes and sees Castiel, on his knees, a sigil-marked collar fastened around his throat.

"I let Sam out of the panic room," Castiel breathes. "I'm sorry."

And Dean knows that he is, but that doesn't make it hurt any less.


End file.
